


what is it worth (when all that's left is hurt)

by quakeriders



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternative ACOWAR Ending, Amarantha - Mention, Evil Feyre Archeron, F/M, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, POV Rhysand (ACoTaR), Torture, this is not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 21:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18352064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quakeriders/pseuds/quakeriders
Summary: She gave herself to the cauldron.And the cauldron gave something back.or: in which Feyre makes a bargain with the cauldron and it's asking price is her weakness.





	what is it worth (when all that's left is hurt)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HighLadyOfTheSith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighLadyOfTheSith/gifts).



> THIS IS NOT A HAPPY FIC. I REPEAT - IF YOU'RE LOOKING FOR WARM FUZZY FEELS, TURN BACK NOW!
> 
> No happy beginnings, no happy endings, just good old angst that leaves you feeling cold and empty and questioning all your life choices.
> 
> with that being said, I hope you enjoy my attempt at evil!Feyre
> 
> title inspo: queen of peace - florence and the machine

Feyre felt the cauldron’s presence spread through her body like lead. She could do nothing but hold on, as the dark, all-consuming power settled along her bones and seeped into her very soul. She could do nothing as her own mind was pushed into a dark corner and something ancient and twisted and cruel settled in her. Awoke in her.

Then, her fingers were her own again and she could remove them from the wicked thing.

Amren stood beside her, her silver eyes like storm clouds. "What did you do?"

Feyre didn’t bother to answer as she stepped back and turned to face the battle field before her. Though she wasn’t touching the cauldron anymore, she could feel its lingering presence, awaiting her orders.

They were one and the same now. She could ask it do to as she pleased.

Feyre lifted her hand and pointed a single finger to the wall of Hybern soldiers and willed them to die. Hundreds of them died in an instant. Some just crumpled to dust, while others fell to the ground and didn’t move again.

Their own soldiers stumbled in their steps, but quickly regained their footing.

Still, it wasn’t enough and Feyre wasn’t done. The cauldron purred into her, cherishing the death Feyre was giving it. The life force of those soldiers.

So, she did it again.

Again and Again.

Wherever she pointed, their enemies died.

She could feel her own knees buckling and as she finally turned towards that armada on the sea, that finger she extended was shaking.

From exhaustion, from terror or from wicked delight - Feyre didn’t know. Did not want to know.

And then the cauldron began thrashing. Like a beast rearing its head, it demanded its price. As Feyre watched their soldiers overtaking the battlefield and pressing the advantage, she gladly gave it.

She gave herself to the cauldron.

And the cauldron gave something back.

Feyre stopped shaking.

"What did you do?" Amren hissed again, curling her fingers around Feyre’s arm. "What did you give it in return?"

The high lady of the night court turned to look at the female and smiled. "My weakness."

And then, Amren gasped, lifting her hands from Feyre’s skin, the palm of her hand red and stinging.

"Do not touch me again." Feyre growled and turned again to look at the battlefield. "Or it will be the last thing that you do."

A shadow blocked the sun and then the sound of wings beating the air filled her ears. She could smell his familiar scent, feel the tug of that bond between their souls, but her heart did not leap in joy.

Instead, Feyre tracked his flight and watched as her mate landed before her in the muddy ground. "What happened?" He asked, looking from one female to the other.

Amren was still cradling her burnt hand and hissed, "Ask your mate. She just threatened to kill me."

Feyre let out a dark chuckle and took a step away from her. "No, I simply asked you to never touch me without my consent again."

"I mean," Rhysand pressed, eyes flashing. "What happened there?" And he pointed to the battle field behind him, where only a few hundred of Hybern’s soldiers remained.

"The cauldron and I made a bargain." Feyre told him.

—

Rhys just gaped at her. The way she stood, her face like a stony mask and those blue-grey eyes for once cold and devoid of emotion. Something was wrong with her, he could feel it in his soul.

He wanted to close the distance between them, to pull her into his arms and kiss her, but they way she looked at him, with her head tilted to the side and her body tensed and ready for anything, sent the warning bells in his mind ringing.

"Feyre." He said, tugging on their bond, desperate for her to look at him with an emotion. Any emotion. "What did the cauldron ask for?"

She had just killed thousands upon thousands of men and yet there was nothing that hinted at any feeling.

The bond between them was silent. The bridge cold and her mind at the other end was sealed behind a dark, cold shield.

He gritted his teeth and began walking towards her.

"I gave the cauldron my weakness." She said.

He stopped. The whole world seemed to stop. "What does that mean? What weakness?"

Feyre chuckled again and that sound sent shivers down his arms, his spine, his soul. It was cold and cruel and so unlike the female he loved. Whatever the cauldron had taken, it had changed her. Panic began to course through him. This, the sight of his mate like this, was more terrifying than the knowledge of their sure defeat against Hybern.

From the corner of his eye, Rhys saw Amren shift and finally, he noticed the raw flesh of her palm. And the vary look in his second’s eyes told him that Feyre had caused the injury.

Now that he had directed his attention to her, he could feel the power that was building beneath Amren’s skin. Could feel her rallying all her might. To do what, Rhys didn’t know.

He wanted to tell her to stand down. Wanted to ask her to leave. But whatever Amren was sensing, Rhys could feel it, too.

An essence of power lingered in Feyre that was not of her own. It felt foreign and ancient and wicked. And it scared the shit out of him.

So, Rhys watched as Amren’s power speared for his mate, not to kill or hurt, she would never dare, but to simply give them time.

A shield of air snapped into being between them so fast, that Amren’s blast of power was hurled back to its origin and Amren fell back, landing in the mud with a squelching sound.

Rhys could feel the consciousness leave her and fixed his eyes back to Feyre.

She hadn’t moved an inch. But those full lips he had kissed so many times now, curved into a smirk.

It turned his blood cold.

There was nothing human in her now. Despite her being changed into fae, there had always been that lingering humanity in her eyes. A softness that came from her mortal heart. It wasn’t there anymore. And along with that, gone was any kindness, any warmth.

Anything the cauldron would see as a weakness.

"I did tell her not to touch me again." Feyre remarked and something flashed in her eyes.

That flash promised nothing but violence and despite the utter wrongness of it all, Rhys was readying his own magic. It went against all of his instincts to prepare for an attack on his mate, but he had to make sure that she wouldn’t cause any more harm. There were too many people here.

Feyre’s eyes swept over him, reading him like an open book. She could feel his magic rising up to meet his demand and that smirk on her lips turned feral. "Bad idea, lover." She said and Rhys almost missed the blast of magic she sent his way.

He shielded and had to grit his teeth as her power met his.

Rhys knew Feyre’s magic almost as well as his own, but this— this was different. This wasn’t the magic that Feyre had been given along with her new immortal life. No, this magic came from somewhere else, something else.

It was raw and blinding and so like the white light that had flooded the battle field when the king had used the cauldron.

"Feyre, stop." Rhys gasped, as another wave of magic speared for him.

Again he shielded and again, the impact caused him grit his teeth.

Feyre still hadn’t moved. Still watched him like an asp surveying its prey. And had it been any other situation, he might have admired the look of her like that. Strong and majestic. His high lady.

But he knew deep in his bones that whatever had happened, this female before him was not his. And judging by the blasts of power she sent his way, she did not think of him as hers either.

He needed to get her away from here. Needed time to figure out how to get the real Feyre back. Maybe once Amren was awake, she could communicate with the cauldron.

He sent a cloud of darkness towards Feyre and reached out with his mind towards Cassian, Azriel and Mor.

"Get to the cauldron now. Amren is here but unconscious. Don’t let the cauldron out of your sight. Feyre isn’t well, I’m taking care of her." He spoke into his family’s minds and then he winnowed before his mate and wrapped an arm around her, winnowing again.

He took her to an Illyrian camp that was now deserted. He could feel her wrath through their bond and winnowed a couple feet away from her, before he finally lifted the cloud of darkness from her.

Those eyes were blazing now. With fury, with something cold and hot at the same time.

Rhys knew the hit was coming this time. However, the blast was stronger now. Strong enough that it shattered his shield and hit him square in the chest. It sent him flying backwards and only his centuries of training allowed him to land on his feet.

Finally, Feyre moved. Graceful and feline, she stalked towards him, her hair blown into her face by a strong wind. Her cheeks were flushed and Rhys could have sworn her eyes were glowing.

"Another bad idea." She whispered and then Rhys was gasping, as Feyre sent blast after blast of magic towards him. It wasn’t water or ice or fire and no matter how many shields Rhys created, they all shattered like fine porcelain.

The magic met him like punches and cuts. Dozens of them, so quick and hard that Rhys was gasping and before he knew it, he was on his knees.

Blood dripped from his mouth down his chin and his chest hurt with each gasping breath he took.

"Feyre." He said, lifting his head to look at her. "This isn’t you."

She stood before him now, a hand reaching out and gripping his chin tightly. She lifted his head further, until his throat was bared and their eyes locked.

"You and Amren started this." She told him, her voice midnight soft. "I’m just finishing it."

Rhys tried to shake his head but her grip was too firm. "I would have never hurt you. Neither would Amren."

She smiled at that. "And that’s your greatest weakness, isn’t it, my love?"

Her fingers trailed down his throat, nails digging into the sensitive flesh there. Rhys’ muscles locked up, the instinct to fight anyone who would dare touch him like that. But— this was Feyre. He wouldn’t— couldn’t hurt her.

Then, her nail dug deeper, swiping across his throat and something in him snapped.

He twisted, using their positions to his advantage. And before her movement was done, Rhys had her one the cold ground and crouching above her.

He could feel the blood welling from his newest cut and a vicious snarl rippled from him. For a second, it hadn’t been her hands on his throat but another’s. And that memory of Amarantha had been enough for him to act blindly.

She answered his growl with one of her own. "Are you going to kill me, Rhysand?" She challenged him, somehow seeming utterly comfortable between his body and the ground. She was smirking fully now. "Are you going to rip out my throat for what I did?"

He shook his head. And his mind was whirring. Too many emotions, too many memories. It was all too much. He wanted to roar at her. At the world. They had won the war, but at what cost?

If his mate was gone for good, what did he care about their victory?

"Feyre, please." He pleased, his eyes filling with tears. He needed her to look at him and see him. See him like she had. "Please."

She flipped them and Rhys was too exhausted by that thought to care. She straddled him, almost lovingly, teasingly and leaned down to press a kiss to his lips, then whisper in his ear.

"Would you kill me if I ripped out darling Mor’s throat?" She sent an image of her doing just that into his mind and Rhys tensed beneath her. "Or if I shred Cassian’s wings?" Another image of his friend screaming and thrashing in agony and Rhys tried to push her off. "Or if I tie Azriel to a bed and fuck him?"

Rhys roared at her, at the threats and the wrongness of it all. He thrashed beneath her, trying to throw her off and to make sure that she would never ever be able to—

Another image was sent into his mind. Feyre using a dagger to slice her own throat. "Or, what about this?"

Night exploded around them. And he sent the tendrils of darkness towards her, curling around her body and lifting her from him. He was on his feet and snarling, as the day came back into focus.

"Stop this, Feyre." He said, his voice a pained plea. "You don’t mean any of this. Please, stop."

This must be hell. His own personal hell. Maybe he had died on the battlefield and this was what he would endure for the rest of eternity. His mate torturing him with all of his fears and smirking while doing so.

"Oh, but the fun has just begun, my love." Feyre crooned and shook off the ropes of darkness with half a thought.

Then she advanced on him again and Rhys let her.

**Author's Note:**

> pls.... if you read this, give me FEEDBACK. this is out of my comfort zone and I feel very self conscious.  
> tumblr: quakeriders, as well.


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